


illusions in a snowglobe

by sophiecognito



Series: gala and pal's xiv fics [5]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Amaurot (Final Fantasy XIV), FFxivWrite, FFxivWrite202, Gen, Introspection, Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Post-Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers, Pre-Patch 5.3: Reflections in Crystal, Specific Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:54:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26256724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophiecognito/pseuds/sophiecognito
Summary: A timeless walk in a timeless city.Or, Galatea strolls through Amaurot, overthinking as is her recent vice of choice.
Series: gala and pal's xiv fics [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1906081
Kudos: 3





	illusions in a snowglobe

**Author's Note:**

> For the ffxivWrite event!
> 
> Prompt 2: sway
> 
> 10/5: edited and added a bit more to the ending

The city has no sway on Galatea. 

There’s no reason for her to visit Amaurot beneath the waves again, bereft of company. Emet-Selch has died by her hand, yet the illusion remains like a testament to his words. Easy to remember a still standing legacy. 

There’s no reason, of course, yet she presses her palm against the smooth stone as she passes the myriad buildings. Her carbuncle pads besides her, tail held aloft in case any of the slime monsters come oozing their way. None do and Galatea walks near the too tall shadows of the long dead. 

There's a reason for omitting her whereabouts. The Scions will not understand; she doesn’t herself. 

Galatea can still see the afterimages of the city’s destruction, another illusion Emet-Selch paraded them through. To see the city now, placid and languid and whole, aches beneath her ribs. 

It’s the pain of destruction, she tells herself in the too wide streets and boulevards. The Calamity’s wounds may be old scars beneath the new ones, yet its claws are phantoms in the night, in any explosion of fire and energy, in useless carnage. 

Emet-Selch had a clear memory of it; she cannot blame him.

The sun refuses to meet the sunken city, time refusing to sink into it. Refreshing to drop its persistent thread, she indulges in timelessness, walking and walking and walking till her feet stumble with each other. By a streetlight, she spots an empty bench. Using her rusty dragoon training, she jumps to its seat. Her carbuncle scrambles after her, chirping. 

“So this is how Tataru felt in Ishgard,” Galatea mumbles, leaning back on her hands. She dangles her legs over the edge as her comment gets lost in Amaurot. The carbuncle, having reached its goal, settles on her lap. 

“Aye, I feel the same,” she says to it. Amaurotines pass her by without acknowledgment of the lost child she might appear to them. 

She wonders, not for the first time, if the dead walking will ever wake from their dreamlike stasis and vanish. How long will Emet-Selch’s magic hold? And an errant thought besides, could she keep it alive herself? Strange. Why think it so? She’s no Ancient or Ascian and no matter how many shards have rejoined, she’s just an elezen with a knack of Allagan summoning, is all. 

This line of thinking gets her nowhere. Ardbert’s shard, however faint but the clearest of them all, tugs its agreement in her soul. Galatea had told Emet-Selch as such: she was only herself. She exists as she is, a fragmented full existence, not as a mirage of another. Chirping, the carbuncle nuzzles her.

It’s a city that exists no more. To think of its resurrection opens doors Emet-Selch will like never consider. What of the other cities destroyed by the Flood? The ones forgotten by history in the Source, eroded by time? Why does Amaurot get to be remembered while the rest lay forgotten? And most of all, why _should_ she, even if she has the means?

The anger simmers under her skin because she has an answer and Galatea’s not sure if it’s his or hers. A part of her yearns for what he had, the feeling, the attachment to a singular place to call home. Her fingers dig into the carbuncle’s fur, the aether twinning in her fingers. 

It’s wholly selfish. It’s wholly love.

Frowning, she shuts her eyes. And though he did not live to hear her answer, she has given her word to keep his ( _their_ ) legacy. Slowly, she opens her eyes, catching every spire in her gaze. Emet must’ve thought the city beautiful enough to preserve, with its sleek straight lines, geometric figures akin to the ones in her grimoire. 

She stares holes into its windows, dull and dark and lifeless, wishing for a feeling to burst free like water from a well. The exercise ends in failure like it has the previous attempts. Her sigh gets lost in the silence. 

Amaurot has no sway over Galatea, yet a deeply buried part wishes it so.

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes a wol gotta walk through a city and have complicated feelings. 
> 
> one day i'll break 1k words. today is not that day haha


End file.
